T. Parker: Cold Pursuit

McMichael carried a heavy box outside to the trailer, pushed it along the steel floor to one corner. He wondered if his old love poem based on "Trees" was in there. Three more heavy boxes. He stood in the shade of the pine for a moment and watched a jet from Lindbergh rise west over the ocean. He heard a shrill squawking sound from somewhere behind the Hansen home, wondered if there were monkeys in the eucalyptus.

She passed him on the walkway with a box and a smile. McMichael carried out the last box, then helped her with some things from the garage- golf clubs, skis, exercise contraptions. He heard the monkeys in the tree again.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Gar's friends." She led him down the walkway to the backyard.

The monkeys weren't monkeys at all, but birds. The aviary took up almost half of the big shaded yard. There were high poles with green mesh strung over the top and sides, but he could hardly see it against the foliage. What he did see were the canaries and finches flitting around their feeders, the parrots and macaws sidling and squawking, the peacocks dragging their elaborate robes of color across the gravel-and-poop-strewn ground. Two flamingos stood by a gurgling pool and looked at McMichael as if he were common.

"Got any owl parrots?" he asked.

"They're those big drowsy ones right there," she said, pointing. "Sleep all day, squawk all night. Gar bought them half a year ago. Are you interested in birds?"

"Some of them."

McMichael remembered the girl in Bird Brains describing the buyer of two owl parrots six months ago, thought of Johnny writing notes in his black notebook. White guy. Maybe fifty. Athletic. Good-looking. Short blond hair.

"There are wild parrots here on the point," she said. "Came up from Mexico and stayed."

"So," said McMichael, "Garland goes in there once a day to feed them, maybe check the water?"

She looked at him with suspicion, nodding. "What's up, Tom?"

"Johnny's got a parakeet. Wants a walk-in aviary someday, like this one."

"The birds have to be compatible. Talk to Garland. He'll tell you all about it."

"Maybe I'll do that."

He helped her carry a cedar chest into the trailer, climbing inside to get it up against one side. When he was finished he wiped his brow and sat back on his haunches. "Got something to drink, Pat?"

In the kitchen she offered to spike the soft drink with rum or vodka but McMichael declined.

"Did I freak you out with all my nostalgia talk on the boat?" she asked.

He shook his head. He was trying to calculate the chances of an owl parrot feather attaching to Garland's black running suit, then falling off during a beating. Pretty decent, was what he came up with.

"I'm sorry if I did. I want to keep you close, Tom."

"I value you," he said.

"But not enough to get to know me again? I've actually changed in some good ways."

"I believe you. Did you and Garland drive a lot of demo vehicles from the dealership?"

She looked at him hard. "You came over here to question me?"

"And to help with the heavy stuff."

She smiled without enthusiasm. "Sure, we drove demo cars. Mostly Gar. Who cares?"

"The last time anybody saw Courtney Gonzalez alive, she was getting into a wine-colored SUV with Pete Braga plates. That was Thursday, January second."

McMichael watched a darkness come to Patricia's face. "Who's Courtney Gonzalez?"

"One of Pete's girlfriends. A professional girlfriend. She got murdered and dumped."

Patricia shook her head with finality. "I never met one of them. I heard he had them. There are some things you don't want to know about your grandfather."

"Garland drove a wine-colored SUV for a month or so, didn't he?"

"Yep."

The doorbell rang and she sighed, then went to answer it. A minute later Patricia came back with a FedEx envelope and tossed it on a stool.

"Tom," she said, "you want to know about Gar, talk to Gar. He's all yours."

"When will he be back?"

"This evening, sometime- United from San Francisco. You're not really serious about him killing anybody are you?"

"Not really," he said, shaking his head as he lied. "I'm still just fishing."

"He's the supreme coward."

"People can surprise you."

"Garland as a killer," she said flatly. "I don't know whether to laugh or shudder."

"When did you tell him you were divorcing him? Was it before or after Pete died?"

"After. But he had to know before. I can't fake things."

"How did he react?"

"He threw a bottle of vodka through the sliding glass door. Then cried. Went to his room and locked the door. We had separate rooms by then."

He nodded. "No sense in telling him I was asking these things, Pat."

"No. You want to go get some lunch?"

"I've got some things to do. Rain check?"

"Whatever, Tom. I'll walk you out."

McMichael delivered to Arthur Flagler the table knife and fork he'd swiped from Garland Hansen's sink and pocketed while Patricia was collecting the FedEx envelope. He spilled them from a paper towel onto one of Flagler's light tables.

"Compare the prints on these to the prints inside the gloves," McMichael said.

"Whose expensive but tasteless silverware do we have the honor of dusting here?"

"It doesn't matter."

"No case number? No chain of custody? Those things matter in what we quaintly refer to as courts of law."

"I need these fast, Arthur."

"You'll get them when I'm done, Sergeant."

From his desk McMichael called United Airlines and confirmed the scheduled arrival of United Express flight 687 from San Francisco at six-twenty.

Then he called Hector and told him they had a special passenger to meet at Lindbergh in a few hours. McMichael told him about the SUV, the owl parrots, the divorce, and Garland Hansen's imperiled stake in Pete Braga's estate.

He read his notes from Bird Brains. It was a good description of Garland, and the girl with the stainless steel stud in her eyebrow seemed sharp enough to pull Hansen out of a lineup. McMichael smiled to himself, looking forward to telling Johnny that their notes had paid off.

McMichael was sitting in Gabriel's room at San Diego General Hospital, listening to his father tell stories about his mother and watching the darkness fall, when his cell phone rang.

"I found something extremely upsetting in my garage," said Patricia. "I think you need to see them."

"What are they?"

"They can't be described."

McMichael called Hector but got the machine.

Point Loma was dark against the sky as McMichael headed up North Harbor Drive. The evening was crisp already, the last of sunset just a fading pale stripe in the western sky. A stiff breeze rocked the yachts at Spanish Landing.

The Hansen driveway gate was open. When he pulled in he saw Patricia's red Mercedes parked in a flood of white light coming from the garage. It was tucked up close to the open door, the rental trailer still attached. In the rearview he saw the gate roll closed.

They can't be described.

Patricia was leaning against the car door, hunched against the chill in a leather jacket, a wool watch cap pulled down to cover her ears. She looked away as he cut the lights and parked behind her.

He got out and shut his door quietly.

"Thanks for coming," she said. She was wearing black gloves and her face looked flushed and somehow eager.

"You're welcome. What is it, Pat?"

She shook her head and pushed away from the car. As he walked into the fluorescent light of the garage McMichael noted the box springs and mattress leaning up against one wall, two tireless bicycles hanging along another, a workbench, the Peg-Board wall hung with various tools. There was a lawnmower, a leaf blower, a chainsaw and a boat trailer. And four towers of boxes stacked and leaning, apparently on their way to the trailer. A cobweb swayed in the breeze. A lamp had been set up on an old chest of drawers, the naked bulb glowing over a big stainless steel tub.